


...And Arya Did Too

by Your_Chrome_Horse_Diplomat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (from a point of view), Angst, Arya In Disguise, Drama, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fantasizing, House Stark, Introspection, Look this is gonna be a bit introspective and self-indulgent but trust me the good stuff's there, Masturbation, Murder, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Unaware Incest, moody
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-12-27 04:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12073623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Your_Chrome_Horse_Diplomat/pseuds/Your_Chrome_Horse_Diplomat
Summary: Arya Stark - if she can even claim that name anymore - is ready to leave Westeros. As far as anybody knows, she died or disappeared a long time ago. But before she can bring herself to go, there's something she needs to do. She needs to find and bed Jon Snow.Arya knows that her honorable Half-Brother would never accept his sister's touch. She also knows she can't risk showing her face around Winterfell. But Arya has other Faces she can use - and what Jon Snow doesn't know won't hurt him. Much.





	1. Chapter 1

Arya had lost a great many things since she last saw Winterfell. She’d lost family, tied by blood or by oath. She’d lost names and identities, too many to recall. Most of all, she now thought, as she rode her scrawny horse along the Northern roads, she’d lost her home.

Even now, as Winterfell appeared over the hills, she felt no sense of homecoming. She saw the old keep, grim and grey, weighed down under the snow like an old beggar, and barely recognized it. Those walls may well be the same stones she’d played on as a child. The keep might well hold the same rooms she’d slept in, eaten in, hidden in. Below it, she might well find the same courtyard in which she’d once dreamed of adventuring. But it was all changed.

Like herself, Arya thought. Maybe it was still the same skin, the same bones, the same blood. Perhaps a stranger would say at a glance that nothing essential had changed. But Arya knew better. The Winterfell of years ago, and the Arya Stark that had lived there, were dead and gone. In their place was something colder, something harder. Something that just happened to look alike.

The pale horse trundled along the path, now half-buried under Winter and neglect. She hadn’t given it a name. It hadn’t needed one. Something lay in its path, covered over in snow, and the horse’s step kicked it loose. A skull rolled out from under the snow. The back of it had been cracked open like an eggshell.

The Battle of the Bastards, as they were calling it, had been some weeks ago now. The weather and the animals had hidden it away well enough, but under the snow there were dead things all around. Looking at the skull, Arya could find no way to tell which side this victim had been on. Was he a Northman? A Frey? A man of the Vale, a Wildling? Was he – or she – even a soldier at all?

The horse moved on, and Arya did too.

When Arya heard about the battle, heard that Jon Snow was being hailed King in the North, she’d been searching for a ship to take her away from Braavos. She’d left the temple of Black and White behind her, with the Waif dead in a dark corner somewhere, Needle in her hand and a bag of faces over her shoulder. She was no longer Arya Stark, but nor was she No One.

She’d been tempted, very tempted, to return to Jon and try reclaim what she’d lost. To be Arya Stark again. She imagined walking proudly into Winterfell and sitting at the high table, with Jon and Sansa on either side. She allowed herself fantasy for only a little while, before she killed it.

She knew it couldn’t be. She was not No One, but nor was she Arya Stark. She could not go back to the way things were, and she wanted no part of the way things now were. Westerosi wars, petty politics, marriage to some weakling Lord who would be three times her age and worth barely a fifth of her. She knew that when she came back, she wouldn’t stay.

As far as Jon or the rest of the North knew, Arya Stark was dead. There was no point in resurrecting her, only for her to disappear once again. It would be an unneeded cruelness to Jon, atop everything else.

But yet, she needed to come back. Just once. There was something she needed to do – but it need not be Arya Stark that did it. She reached into her saddlebag, and felt the Face she had prepared there. It was a girl’s face, plain and unremarkably common, just a little bit older than Arya. It felt cold and dead to the touch, but when she slipped it under her hood and placed over her own face, she felt the blood begin to flow through it again.

She blinked twice, and then Arya was somebody else.

She was nearing the outskirts of Winterfell now, but still saw no signs of life. Normally, the smallfolk would have taken up quarters in Wintertown outside the walls by now, but the houses were all either burned or buried in snow.

She passed a particular house, the stones and logs of its face stained with burn marks. The door was open, showing the remains of the roof that had fallen inside. Arya thought she could remember this house from the time before… some boy had lived here. He had blue eyes, and was probably dead now. She’d gotten into a fight with him once, and Jon had teased that Father could have them betrothed, if she wanted. Arya had fumed, and changed over to fighting Jon.

She smiled at the memory, beside herself. She sometimes had some trouble recalling all of Arya Stark’s memories, but the ones with Jon rarely faded. She’d never had any interest in the boy, of course. At that age, she wasn’t particularly interested in anybody. Anybody but Jon.

Arya’s horse trotted up to the gates of Winterfell, where two guardsmen stood leaning on their spears. One peered up at her, his face as craggy and sharp as the Northern Mountains. The other had a deep scar running along his left cheek. She didn’t recognize either of them.

“And who are you?” the scarred one said.

Arya gave a curt nod to them both. “I’m Elrine,” she answered.

“And who the fuck is that?” he asked.

“I’m one of the peoples you call Wildlings.”

The lie had been prepared, and so it was easy to say just right - with natural confidence and just a trace of defiance. Both guardsmen snapped to a little more attention.  
“And just what are you doing down here?” the scarred one asked. “I thought your lot kept up around The Gift.”

“We’ve enough Wildlings down here,” the craggy Guard agreed.

Arya’s second answer was not a lie, and so was that much harder to say.

“I’ve come to see Jon Snow,” she said.

 


	2. Chapter 2

From behind their spears, the guards scoffed at her.

“You’re looking for Jon Snow, are you?” the craggy-faced one asked. “Well lucky for you love, you’ve found the right place. You and half the North.”

The two guards stood before the gate with all the unyielding arrogance of gargoyles. The craggy-faced one, the shorter of the two, scratched his chin against the wood of his spear. The other, with the ravine of twisted scar-skin from ear to nose, just stared. Arya’s horse sighed, and the breath steamed in the winter air.

“Can I come in, then?” Arya said.

“Wouldn’t say so,” said the scarred one.

His partner shook his head solemnly. “You can’t just go walking into Winterfell,” he said. “These spears aren’t for show you know.”

“Especially not for some wildling,” said the scarred one. He snorted from the back of his throat before hocking a lump of phlegm into the muck. “Your lot might’ve gotten past the wall, but you don’t just get to go wherever you like. We’ve got laws down here, you know. Order.” He shook his head at her. “All that probably doesn’t mean a thing to a wildling, does it?”

“More than some,” Arya answered. “And I’m not just ‘some wildling’. My father is Joror, elder of clan Brighthorn. I’ve come on his behalf, to speak with Jon Snow.”

Arya had no idea if there was such a clan as the Brighthorns. She guessed that these guardsmen didn’t either.

“So you’re some sort of wildling princess? Is that right?” said the craggy one.

“Oh well excuse us, Princess,” said the scarred one, rolling his eyes. “We’ll just get on our fucking knees for you then, will we? Have a feast for you, will we?”

“Letting me through will be enough,” Arya answered. “There are neither princes nor princesses among the Free Folk. Joror is most respected of our clan, and I am most respected of his daughters.”

Arya was drawing on her admittedly limited knowledge of wildlings. It was at this point that she wished she had listened more to Old Nan’s tales when she had the chance. She recalled these few details, alongside tales of women warriors and ice-spiders the size of horses. Beyond that, the tales had all seemed quite unlikely.

“A likely story,” the scarred guard replied. “Nobody told us anything about any wildling princess coming.”

“Sounds like a made-up story to me,” said other one.

Arya shook her head. “Jon Snow will know of my clan. If not, he will wish to know.”

“Mayhaps he would,” said the scarred one. “Our Lord Snow does love you wildlings.”

“He loves the pretty ones, alright,” agreed the craggy one. “That’s what I heard.”

“I think he’d like the look of you,” smirked the scarred one. The expression strained the seam of his scar, making the skin turn deathly white. “Some pretty little wildling princess, you’re just what he likes.”

Just past the two men, Arya could already see the Winterfell courtyard. She would not be turned back, this close. She looked at their hostile faces, and felt the weight of the dagger on her belt.

“Your King would not be pleased, I think, to hear you turned me away,” she told them.

“How’s he going to hear about it?” said the scarred one. He grinned at her from behind his spear. “I’m not going to tell him.” He looked at his partner. “Are you?”

“Not me,” he said. “He won’t hear it from me.”

Arya couldn’t help but wonder at the men that Jon had guarding their old home. She would rather not to kill them. Of all the faces she could collect, she could easily do without theirs.

She let her eyes drift past them, to the Winterfell courtyard. She could hear the sounds of activity from here. She was close enough to see the workmen’s faces, to see them bustling to and fro, some carrying lumber, grain, axes. Between them all, she saw a thick-set and bearded Maester whom she did not recognize. Thinking for a moment, she decided to change tactic.

She cleared her throat, filled her lungs up with air and made herself tall in her saddle.

“I demand that you let me in!” she bellowed. “And for you own sake be fast about it, before I whip you both from here to the Wall!”

The two guards jumped at the sudden outburst, while in the courtyard, heads turned. The craggy-faced guard practically fell over himself to grab his spear, while the scarred one was turning an unflattering shade of red. Arya found it hard work to glower at them, when she wanted very much to laugh.

“Are you deaf?” growled the scarred one. “Did the air beyond the wall freeze your wits? You don’t get to demand anything of us, wilding, princess or not.”

“Princess?” scoffed the craggy one. “Look at her. Even wildling princesses wouldn’t look so brutish.”

“Do you want to see how brutish I can be?” roared Arya, throwing open her cloak. The two guards saw the dagger she wore there, and immediately turned grim.

“Careful now, girl,” warned the scarred one. He lowered his spear, so that Arya had to look at him past the edge of its steel. “Or I’ll show you how bru…”

“Hold there!”

Another man’s voice interrupted them suddenly, and all three looked to its source. Arya grinned. Shuffling towards them, with his chain bouncing noisily and his robes raised up to avoid tripping, was the bearded Maester.

“What is this?” he puffed. “Why this shouting?”

Arya spoke before the two irate guardsmen could answer.

“I am Elrine, daughter of Joror, who is chief of the Brighthorn Clan. I come to speak to Jon Snow. For this, your guards have insulted my clan and threatened me with violence.”

“Is this true?” the Maester demanded. “Hmm?”

Neither guards would look him in the eye.

“She insulted us,” the scarred one growled, while tapping his boots with the base of his spear.

“Aye, and threatened us,” the craggy one said.

“And you lost your composure so quickly to this?” demanded the Maester. “To the insults of some woman?”

“She’s not some woman, she’s a wildling woman,” the craggy guard protested.

The Maester looked at them both like a tutor whose students had tried his patience, and shook his head.

“Your vigilance is admirable, but I fear you lack in sense to temper it. Wildling or no, she has come to Winterfell honestly, to seek her King’s ear. Let her through.”

Neither guard protested. Spitting at her feet, the scarred one withdrew his spear and stepped aside. His partner followed his lead. Nodding her thanks to the Maester, Arya rode her horse in through the gates. As she looked around, she saw that the courtyard had almost frozen with the spectacle. Now life returned to it, though the sight of the armed woman on horseback still drew some curious looks.

The Maester followed beside her horse, hurrying somewhat to match its stride. A servant boy walked past with a bundle of logs in his arms, and he called him over.

“If you’ll excuse me,” the Maester said up to her, “His Grace requires much of my services, so I am quite busy. The boy will take your horse, and show you to some lodgings.”

“Thank you,” Arya said. “And when can I see your King?”

“I’m afraid you’re too late to speak to his Grace today,” he said, bowing apologetically, “But he will hold court again tomorrow morn.”

Arya nodded her thanks, and let the boy help her with her horse. When he reached to unload her saddlebags, Arya politely but firmly declined. As soon as the horse was stabled, she dismissed him.

Winterfell may not have been her home anymore, but she imagined could still find her way through it blindfolded.


	3. Chapter 3

Winterfell was recovering from the damage it had suffered, but it still bore deep scars. The soil underfoot seemed to be part ash, and in the absence of the wooden structures that had burned away, the walls were bare stone. The castle was not dead, but it had been.

Arya could not help but be reminded of Harrenhal as she explored the once-familiar routes. Everywhere she looked, she saw echoes of the cold husk Winterfell had for a time become, and of the Winterfell she had once known. In Harrenhal, Arya had been the Ghost. Here, Arya Stark’s ghosts were everywhere, and too many to count.

Arya followed the old path to the Godswood, ignoring the curious glances she attracted as she passed. She hoped that it had survived. She remembered the Godswood as being somehow different from the rest of the castle – it was so ancient as to be timeless, so quiet as to be placeless. To stand beneath the Weirtree was to be cut off from all the world, Jon had once said.

His words were as true now as they had been then. When she walked under those blood-red leaves, Arya thought she could feel the difference on her skin. There was no ash in the air here, no blood in the dirt. The carved face looked at her with disinterest. It had seen generations of Starks come and go – seen whole ages of men perish. To the Weirtree, the bloodshed of recent years must have seemed like little more than the blinking of an eye.

Arya found a familiar foothold, wrapped her hand around a familiar branch, and climbed. Here was a crook where she used to hide. The last time she had come, the branches had been well overhead, and reaching them seemed an arduous task. Now, she could reach them almost without effort.

Though she had hoped to avoid Arya Stark’s ghosts out here, still the memories came to her. She suddenly remembered coming to this spot once to hide herself away. She had been terribly upset, but could not now remember why. She was sure that it was some petty disaster, like a squabble with Sansa or a scolding from the Septa. Whatever the reason, she had taken a bundle of clothes and decided to run away forever. This was as far as she got.

It felt like she hid here for hours, days even, lying on her back and watching the red leaves sway overhead. She had been sure that her absence had been discovered and the whole castle put onto alert. She imagined Septa Mordane searching all over Winterfell for her, with no luck. She saw Sansa shaking her head and regretting ever having upset her. These thoughts made her grin a wicked grin, which only faded when she pictured how her Father was surely reacting.

Still, the sun was still high when she heard the crunch of leaves underfoot, and peeked her head to see Jon Snow approaching.

He must have been very young then, but in her memory he was a giant. She saw his black boots stepping through the twigs, and his long dark hair as he searched all around. When he turned back to face her, their eyes met for just an instant before Arya could duck out of sight. Still, she hoped – ridiculously, she knew now – that he had somehow not seen her. Jon, to his credit, knew enough to play along.

It had hurt more than the thoughts of Father, but Arya hadn’t want to see him. If Jon had called for her to climb down, Arya would have climbed up higher. If he’d said that everybody was worried about her, or that she had no reason to be upset, Arya believed she would have bolted into the forest and never come back.

But Jon knew better.

Instead, he strolled across the clearing as if the thought just chanced to take him. He picked a patch of root just below Arya, dusted it off and sat back on it like a cushioned chair. Then he just sat there, without a word.

Arya could see his image perfectly in the dark pool water, so she knew that he could see hers. Even so, Jon pretended not to notice her. He sat there in a gentle silence, and waited.

The angry part of Arya wished he’d go away. The other part of her loved him. Little by little she found herself edging down the branch to be closer to him, until she was lying just above him, her head a hands-width away from his.

After hesitating for almost an eternity, she let her hand drop down. Without a word or an upward glance – though Arya swore she could see a smile on his reflection – Jon took it in his own.

His hand was as warm and reassuring as a bedroom fireplace. His grip was just tight enough to hold on, but loose enough that Arya could pull way.

When the comfort of his hand was no longer enough, Arya slinked down beside him, off her perch. Only now did Jon finally looked over, asking without a word if she wanted to talk. She didn’t. Nodding, he nudged over to make room for her amongst the roots. Still pretending like he was nothing more than another part of the tree, Arya sat down and leaned her head on his shoulder. 

Even now, when so many other memories had fogged or faded, Arya could remember that simple moment. She could remember how well the image in the dark water suited Jon, and how it rippled when the wind moved. She could remember how they sat until the air grew chilled, and Arya’s muscles began to ache, but she didn’t want to move and so she suffered it.

Finally, Jon let out a breath and turned his head towards her. She remembered feeling his jaw against her hair.

“It’s time to go,” he said softly. Arya nodded.

They walked back to the castle then, and those were the only words they spoke that day. Even still, it was enough that she went to bed with a smile.

Arya blinked the memory away. The strength of the sudden images disturbed her. She had not come back here to find the old Arya Stark – though perhaps she was naïve to have expected otherwise. Arya thought that if she spent too long here, nostalgia might tie her to Winterfell like a great grey boulder lashed to her back.

She had come back to love Jon Snow, but not to stay with him. Her half-brother, so like her Father, so honourable and righteous. She admired him for it, for keeping that sense of steel morality that she had lost. But it was that same honour that forced Arya to come back like this, in another’s face, with another’s name.

His Grace Jon Snow could never accept his half-sister’s touch. He would never accept her lips on his skin, or her hands through his hair. But perhaps he could accept some other woman. Some strange wildling woman who came to him out of the snow, and disappeared in the morn. The thought pained her, for both their sakes.

Suddenly, Arya heard footsteps kicking through snow-buried leaves. Climbing out of her thoughts, she cursed and rolled off her perch. Perhaps Arya Stark could lounge on Winterfell’s ancient Weirtree, but for some stranger to do so would be the height of insolence.

She hid herself behind the thick trunk, hoping she had disappeared, when she heard a familiar voice which made her catch her breath.

“I see you, you know,” the voice called. It was deeper and grimmer than when she’d last heard it, but had that youthful note she had always loved. “Come out from there.”

Seeing no other option, Arya stepped out from behind the tree, and saw Jon Snow watching her with his hand on his sword.


	4. Chapter 4

Faced with the man Jon Snow had become, Arya was forced to realise something she already knew, but had never quite acknowledged. The Jon of her mind’s eye had not much changed since she saw him last. When she’d pictured meeting him again, absurdly, part of her had still been imagining Jon the boy, with his pouty face and with his curls prettier than her own.

The man who stood in front of her now was a very different Jon. It was difference between and cub and a grown wolf. He had become grimmer, stronger. He seemed almost to be taller. His dark eyes, which so matched Arya’s own, seemed to have become darker still. He had become a King.

Arya was so struck by how he’d changed, and how the snowflakes caught on the tips of his lashes and the fur of his cloak, that she almost forgot that he had a sword on his hip, and a palm on its hilt.

“Hello there,” he said, with a note of uncertainty in his voice. His eyes moved to where Arya’s cloak had fallen open, and the tip of the dagger she held there. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I don’t think we have,” Arya answered. “But I know who you are.”

Her first conversation with Jon since he left for the wall, and she started on a lie. She ignored the pang of guilt it gave her.

“I can’t say the same,” Jon said. He frowned slightly and looked back the way he came, only letting his eyes leave her for a second. Arya realised suddenly that he probably had a bodyguard no too far off. She was sure that the King in the North would have a swordman or two at his side, but it would be just like Jon to leave them behind while he visited the Godswood. She wondered if they were in shouting distance. She wondered if Jon was considering calling them.

“I’m Elrine, daughter of Joror. Your Maester probably didn’t tell you I’m here yet.”

Jon’s frown lifted a small amount, but his hand kept on his sword.

“He didn’t,” he said. “You’re one of the Free Folk, then. What is your clan?”

“Brighthorn,” Arya answered.

“I don’t know of them.”

Arya was suddenly reminded of playing hide and seek with Jon as a child. Sometimes, when Jon had made it very near to her hiding spot, and being caught seemed inevitable, Arya would be filled with the urge to burst out and declare “I’m here! It’s me!” She had something approaching that feeling now.

Instead, she looked over Jon’s shoulder with a carefully forced casualness and said “I can leave, if I’m disturbing your prayers. There are things we need to discuss, but they can wait.”

Jon chewed on the thought for a second, and then shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re not.” His stance softened somewhat, and his hand drifted away from his sword. “I’m sorry to be cold, but there are enemies in all corners these days. Winterfell might be mine now, but I suppose its Godswood can never be mine alone. If you want to stay, you may.”

Arya followed his eyes the ancient weirwood tree. She had half feared that by coming back, she would find it diminished from her memory. Instead, she found it as awe-inspiring as ever.

“I haven’t seen one in a long time,” she said, truthfully. Jon looked over at her. “A weirwood tree, I mean.”

The last time she’d touched weirwood, before today, had been on the door of the Temple of Black and White. There it had been cold and dead. Here, it was very different.

“They are beautiful,” Jon said. “There are so many more beyond the wall. Here, most of them have gone.”

“Burned,” Arya corrected. Jon looked over at her in surprise. “You say Gone, like they just disappeared. But it was men who tore them down, or set them burning.”

Jon nodded slowly. It struck Arya as a particularly diplomatic, kingly sort of a nod. She thought their Father used to nod in just the same way.

“The things men do in the name of religion,” he said. “I’ve sat under this tree a great many times, though I can’t say I often do much praying.”

“There’s a lot of people praying these days, but I don’t think it’s done anyone much good,” said Arya.

They lapsed into a silence then. Jon made his way over to his familiar spot, unhooked the sword belt and sat down. Arya noted that he kept his sword near to him, with its hilt turned towards his hand. She moved in tangent, coming to sit by the edge of the pond. As she sat, she found the point of her dagger jabbing into the flesh of her leg.

“I’m going to take out my blade, for comfort’s sake,” Arya said. “I’m telling you first, so you don’t needlessly kill me with that sword of yours.”

Jon nodded wordlessly, and watched as she placed the wrapped dagger on the ground beside her. She couldn’t help but feel Needle’s absence on her belt, but knew well she couldn’t openly carry it in Winterfell, lest she be identified – or worse, be somehow accused of stealing it. For now, it would have to wait in her bags. Once he was satisfied that she wasn’t going to make a slash for his throat, Jon stopped watching. Arya suspected he was still keeping her and the blade in the corner of his eye.

Out of the corner of her own eye, she examined him. Even sitting, his body was tensed as though he expected an attack at any moment. To see the grim new lines on her brother’s face, and the stiff wariness of his stance, she could not help but wonder what he had experienced. Was Winterfell as dangerous a place as he said? Had he become as familiar with the threat of a knife as she had?

Arya picked up a handful of dirt and let it fall between her fingers. Sitting where she was and watching Jon, in the flesh once again, was unleashing a storm in her chest which she struggled to keep hidden. One spare lock of his hair fell over his face, and he pushed it back. It was the kind of thoughtless, automatic movement that Arya had probably watched him do a thousand times without realizing it. Now, even such a small thing was powerful.

She was caught by an overwhelming desire to reach out and touch him. The wish was entirely innocent, for now. It was the same desire that made her run her run her hands along the weirwood bark.

Before then she could stop them, her thoughts began to spiral down an altogether different road. A lightning strike of images shot through her mind, as she imagined running her hands over Jon’s chest, imagined leading him to this spot in the depths of night, of opening his cloak to see…

Arya realised that she was biting her lower lip, just as a young Arya Stark had often done. It was the very first habit she had worked to unlearn with the Faceless Men, and one she thought she had lost. She quickly released the lip from between her teeth. When she looked at Jon, he was watching her with an unreadable look on his face.

If Arya had been given another moment, she would probably have worried that she had somehow fatally marred her disguise. As it happened, when she followed Jon’s gaze past her and over her shoulder, she saw a man with a salt-and-pepper beard walking towards them with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Your Grace, if you’re ready to come back it’s time… ah, I’m sorry.”

The man stopped as he noticed Arya. Leaning back on his heels, he looked at her with interest.

“Your Grace, M’lady,” he said, nodding to each of them as he addressed them. “Pardon me, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Jon raised a hand, and stood up from his perch. “That’s alright, Davos, you haven’t… interrupted anything.”

The pause made Arya look over, but Jon’s face gave away nothing. He turned to introduce them both.

“Elrine, this is Davos Seaworth,” he said. “Davos, this is Elrine.”

“A pleasure to meet you, m’lady,” Davos smiled.

“I’m no lady,” Elrine said. “But also a pleasure.”

The man that Jon had called Davos half-bowed at them both, and readjusted his hands.

“A shame though it is to part such pleasant company, Your Grace, your evening meal is prepared. Lady Sansa wishes to have your company. I’ll escort you back now, if it you pleases you.”

“Thank you, Davos,” said Jon. He refastened his sword belt, and turned to look at Arya. There was a strange look on her face. Arya frowned back at it, and to her surprise, a sad look had come over Jon’s face.

“Is something the matter?” she asked, keeping her voice soft. She knew that it was hardly Elrine’s right to ask, but Arya wanted to know.

Jon simply shook his head. “No, nothing’s the matter,” he said.

The ghost of a smile appeared on his face, before he turned and slapped his hand on Davos’ back. “Well then, Davos, time to eat. Elrine, daughter if Joror, I hope we will get to discuss those important matters on the morrow.”

Arya knew that it was safer not to pry, but she couldn’t allow Jon to leave without an answer.

“If I’ve offended you somehow, I would like that you told me,” she said.

She knew that Jon wouldn’t allow thoughts of offence to go unanswered. Jon’ stopped mid stride, looked at her for a moment, and shook his head. His eyes went off exploring the surroundings instead of looking at her.

“You haven’t,” he said. “It mightn’t mean anything to you, but you reminded me of somebody I knew once. That’s all.”

“Somebody you cared for?” pressed Arya. She knew that she was surely overstepping her bounds now, but her heart was hammering like the hoofbeats of a charging courser.

Jon sighed.

“Yes, somebody I loved very much,” he said. “I’m sorry, but if you’ll excuse me, I have to see my sister now."

With that, he nodded the Davos and they walked away, leaving Arya alone under the shade of the Weirwood tree.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay smut-fiends, here's the truth: this chapter was meant to have the smut, but it just wasn't working. SO I've bumped that scene back a bit, changed it around, given it a new lick of paint (and maybe a lick of something else) and we're good to go... 
> 
> Next chapter.  
>  But also, the one after that too! 
> 
> To make up for it, this chapter is extra long and, I hope, extra good. Enjoy!

Arya’s room was luxurious by any common person’s standards. After so many years of sleeping on wet soil or rough cots, or on the creaking and turning decks of ships, she was practically living like royalty. This wing of the castle had seen some repairs, she noted. When she put her hand to the stone walls, she could feel the hot spring water that pumped through them.

Still, it was no easy thing to come back to luxury, and Arya couldn’t sleep. She rolled around tangled sheets in her bed, getting up every few minutes to double-check that her door was still locked, that her window was still shut, that nobody was under her bed.

Her Elrine face was lying on the bedside table, its lack of skull causing it to sag and distort strangely. Its russet hair was pooled under it like swamp weeds. If needs be, Arya could have it back on in a matter of seconds. Uncovering her own face in Winterfell was a risk, but it also felt right.

Arya tried to roll the pillow over to be more comfortable, and, failing that, threw it off her bed. Outside her door, she could hear footsteps echoing down the hallway and rumbling through the boards. Try as she might, her mind couldn't help but follow them. She wondered if it were a guard, or a servant, or some fellow insomniac. She wondered if she would recognize them.

The footsteps stopped outside her doorway, and Arya stopped rolling. A soft orange glow spilled under the frame – a candle, she supposed. The glow shifted, and Arya watched. 

After only a moment's breath, Arya heard three knocks on the door.

She sat up in bed. Her sheets slipped off her, and in the cold night air, her bare skin broke into goose pimples. An icy draft came from her window, which almost blew away the cobwebs of sleep. The knocking came again from the door.

Wrapping the sheets around her, Arya climbed out of bed, letting their tails drag behind her. She grabbed her Face with one hand and her knife with the other. Slipping it on like an executioner’s hood, she approached the door with her knife-hand poised. She listened carefully for shifting floorboards outside. Arya slowly cracked open the door, and peered into the half-lit candlelight of the hall outside.

“Yes?” she asked.

The shadow of a man stood outside her door, the flickering candlelight making his face seem to morph as Jaqen’s had, all those years ago. In her sleepiness it took her a moment to recognize the man Jon had earlier introduced, Davos Seaworth.

“Good evening m’lady,” Davos said, bowing his head slightly. “I pray I haven’t disturbed you.”

Arya studied his face, and saw nothing but courtesy in it. His eyes looked at her in a kind, uninterested sort of a way, giving no indication that he cared that she was wearing only a sheet. Compared to many of the men she’d watched watching her in recent years, it was almost a relief.

“You haven’t,” she yawned. “And I’m still not a lady.”

“Maybe not,” agreed Seaworth, “But I was raised with a little bit of manners, in spite of myself. So, m’lady it is.”

Arya nodded sleepily at his answer. With no obvious threat or urgency in the conversation, she found herself slipping back into the shroud of exhaustion. Davos repositioned his spare hand behind his back and shuffled his feet.

“His Grace Jon Snow requests your presence for supper,” he said. “He’s in the Great Hall, if you’d care to join him.”

Arya blinked away the blur in her eyes.

“Why does he want to see me?” she said.

She tried not to let any of the wariness she felt into her voice. It was most likely, she knew, that Jon just wanted to share a supper. But perhaps, Arya’s mind suggested, he was suspicious of her disguise, or had realized that there was no such Clan as the Brighthorns, and no such woman as Elrine.

She knew immediately that these thoughts were needlessly paranoid. It was a familiar paranoia, one she often felt in her first days in another’s skin. It had long since abated – or so she had thought.

“Purely for the company,” Davos answered. “Don’t worry about any courtly business, you can save that for the morrow.” He waved his spare hand to swat away the thought. Arya noticed as it passed that it was missing its fingertips.

“I suppose you’ll want to get ready for supper,” Davos said, giving his first indication that he even noticed the sheet. “I can wait outside the door, or come back in a few moments. I’ll show you the way to the Great Hall then.”

“Oh, I already-“

Arya stopper herself, and supressed a curse. With the hand hidden behind the door, she dug her nails into her palm. She had very nearly said that she already knew the way – but of course she didn’t. Arya Stark might have known the way, but Elrine had never visited Winterfell before. A beginners mistake, again. All from the thought of Jon.

“Already have some clothes prepared,” she continued. Davos’ eyebrow had just barely raised, but his expression was for the most part unchanged. Arya forced herself to smile. “So I won’t be long. Wait here.”

Davos bowed his head and Arya shut the door again. Letting the sheet drop to the floor, she fetched a reasonably respectable pile of clothes – of which, Arya did not have many. They were muted in colour and wrinkled atrociously by her packing, but they would do. Besides, they suited - who would expect a wildling to have fine Southern clothes? She dressed quickly, before opening the door and letting Davos lead the way.

The last time Arya had been in the Great Hall, it had seemed full to bursting with laughter. It had been suffocatingly warm and unbearably loud. The adults had been red-faced and laughing, fat King Robert more than any of them. The air had been filled with the roar of banter and the slamming of mugs on tables and backsides on benches. Everybody she had ever lost, it seemed to her, had been there. But not Jon. Jon, the bastard, had been left outside.

Now, the room seemed to be cavernously empty and dark. The few candles on the high table were barely sufficient to keep the dark at shadows away from the platform. Now alone the head of the table, a dark shape in the centre of the light, sat Jon.

Their eyes met across the hall, and Jon nodded to her. The heavy doors clunked shut behind her. She heard by the footsteps that Davos had taken position beside the doorway, leaving the table to themselves.

Arya walked the length of the hall, past the long stretch of empty benches. Her footsteps echoed and caught high in the rafters. She stepped up onto the raised dais, ignoring the short set of steps for the ladies, children, and the old.

The long table was seated only on one side, and Jon sat in the centre, where their father had once sat. His place was set, but no food was in front of him.

“Thank you for joining me,” he said.

“Thank you for the invitation,” she answered.

She pulled out a chair and sat down beside him, where her mother had once sat. Immediately, a servant stepped forward from a dark corner to set her place. As soon as she had finished, a second servant came forward with the supper – a pot of thin soup between them, with a thick trencher each to hold it. A simple mug of beer was placed before them both. When they were done, Arya noted automatically that the sharpest implement left on the table was a serving spoon.

“Now,” Jon said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Not much,” Arya answered. Taking that serving spoon in hand, she pulled the soup her way.

“Maester Wolkan spoke to me after my meal. It sounds like you made quite an impression on my guards.”

“They made quite an impression on me,” Arya said. She peered at Jon out of the corner of her eye. He had not yet looked at the food.

“He tells me that Devron complains that you threatened him.” There was a glint in his eye, but Arya couldn’t read it.

“I could say the same thing. They were the ones with spears, you know.” She put the serving spoon back in the bowl and pushed it away from her. “Which one is Devron – the ugly one or the… well, ugly one?”

The glint in Jon’s eye revealed itself as a sparkle as he grinned. “Karlin would be the man with the war injury. Devron would be the other. Proud men, the both of them. Not so much now that their Lord Bolton is no more.”

Arya frowned. “They served the Boltons? What are they doing defending Winterfell, then?”

Jon sighed. “Winter has come, Elrine, and men are in short supply. I will take what I can.” He took a sip of his beer, and set it back down. The sound on the table echoed throughout the empty hall. “But enough of that. I didn’t invited you to supper to talk politics. Go ahead, have your soup.”

Arya didn’t need any more encouragement. She poured the meal into her stale bread, and her mouth watered as a cloud of steam wafted upwards. Until this moment, she hadn’t much realised her hunger. Already, the soup was soaking into the thick crust of the trencher, softening it around the rims. Caring little for etiquette, she ripped a chunk off with her hands and stuffed it into her mouth. For a wildling to do any different would have been suspicious, she told herself.

“So then, why did you invite me to supper?” she said, between chews.

Jon frowned. “To apologize. Not only for my guards, but for my own rudeness earlier.” He reached for the soup. Arya slid the bowl his way, and he served his own portion.

“No rudeness,” Arya answered. “You were right to be wary.”

“Wariness is one thing,” Jon said between sips. “But to almost draw blades on a guest…”

“Really, don’t worry about it,” Arya said. Her voice was muffled around a mouthful of half-soft bread. “If I was you, my blade would have been out as soon as you heard me.”

“You may say that,” Jon answered. “But that is not the custom below the Wall – especially not for a King.”

“Oh yeah?” asked Arya. She didn’t look over at him. She was busy ripping free another strip of bread.

“Very much so,” Jon said.

“Why?”

“It is not proper for a King to touch his sword in the presence of a lady,”

Arya choked on the innuendo. She forced her mouth shut to supress her laugh, but the mouthful of bread caught in her throat, and she laughed and choked together. She tried to laugh, but couldn’t breath. Feeling less at risk of suffocating than of looking the fool, she struggled to clear her mouth.

She turned to apologise to Jon, hoping he had not caught her immature reason for laughing, but what she saw only worsened the matter. Though Jon Snow’s thick brow was furrowed in confusion, and his dark eyes were deeply concerned, his beard was covered in soup.

At this sight, Arya's laugh burst free. The sound she released was like the braying of a donkey, and bits of food burst free from behind her teeth. Arya doubled over and slammed her fist on the table, setting the serving spoon rattling. Her chest was beginning to strain for lack of breaths, and she very nearly getting concerned.

Hacking and wheezing through eyes half-shut, blinded from laughter and coughing both, Arya reached for her drink. She could just barely make out Jon beside her, who seemed frozen by the strange scene. Her fingers searched vainly for her mug. Her chest was tightening. She was not quite panicking, but she was getting there.

At this, Jon at last broke free of his stupor. He pushed the mug towards her, spilling much of it on the way. Arya snatched it up and gulped it greedily down, ignoring the vile taste. More than half of the drink spilled over her chin and into her lap.

When her throat was cleared she slammed the mug down, gasping air into furious lungs. She blinked the tears out of her eyes, robbing the candles of their halos. She coughed painfully. Jon’s hand patted her encouragingly.

“Breath now, breath,” he said, rubbing his hand against her back. “Are you alright?”

Arya nodded wordlessly – she wasn’t sure she could speak – and shrugged his hand off of her. She coughed a few more times, not so much because she needed to as because she needed to be sure.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, finally. She took another gulp of the nasty beer. She’d tasted beer once or twice in Braavos, and had found the experience merely unpleasant. This time, it was positively vile.

Beside her, she realised suddenly, Jon was laughing to himself. She scowled over at him, only to see him leaned back in his chair with his eyes screwed tight and his chest rising and falling with silent laughter.

“Stop it,” she said. She’d meant it to be firmer, but his laugh had broken her commitment. “Don’t laugh I said!”

“Right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” laughed Jon, shaking his head. His face was becoming red, and he took a sip of his beer to cool down. “It’s only that I’m making for a terrible host. First I almost draw my sword on you, and now my supper tries to kill you.”

Arya tried to scowl through the joke, but couldn’t hold it. Despite herself, a smile broke through onto her lips.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes I know, terribly late, very sorry - here's a double update to make up for it.

Jon and Arya talked then, as they finished their supper. Jon called for a second mug of beer for them both – “I think the table got most of yours,” he said – and these too were soon finished. Arya’s opinion of the taste did not improve, but so long as she was still drinking, their supper was not yet over, and they did not have to leave. With this in mind, she finished her another, and another still.

Gradually, Arya realised that her eyelids were becoming sluggish, and that the whole world seemed somehow to have tilted slightly to one side. She giggled, and drained the last drop of her fifth cup.

Looking over at Jon, she saw him wearing something close to that old smile that she’d once seen so regularly. Almost seamlessly, she’d found that they had slipped back into their old pattern of joking and teasing. If she focused on a single standing moment, out of the blur of conversation she’d found herself swept into, she could almost imagine that nothing had ever changed.

Some time ago – she couldn’t tell how long, now – Jon had dismissed Davos to go sleep. Since then, their soup had become icily cold, and their candles had begun to melt and flow like the towers of Harrenhal. Arya felt content to stay until morning found them, but Jon, it seemed, felt otherwise.

He stretched his arms out behind him and let out a deep yawn.

“I think that’s enough for now,” he said. He pushed the remainder of his food away from him, and gestured for the servant to come retrieve it. “If we are both to wake for court tomorrow, we ought to sleep.”

He stood up from his high chair and dusted the crumbs off of his lap. Arya nodded lazily and followed his lead.

“Davos is long asleep, I would say,” Jon said, wiping his beard clean. The action nearly made Arya laugh anew, but she somehow held it in. “I’ll escort you back to your lodgings, if you wish.”

Jon had paused slightly before saying this, but Arya tried to think nothing of it.

“I have not had that much to drink,” she answered. “But I’ll take the company.”

Nodding, Jon extended an elbow for her, very noble-like, and Arya ignored it. She walked ahead of him, staggering slightly, and stepped off of the dais. To her satisfaction, she landing elegantly and without noise. From the clunking wooden footsteps behind her, she noted with some joy that Jon had taken the steps.

Jon barely had to hurry his pace to catch her – to Arya’s annoyance, he still had much longer legs – and he soon fell into step beside her. He held the stub of a candle in one hand, clearly pulled from their supper table. They walked together through the dark corridors, and Arya had to remind herself not to lead the way. Once or twice, she was forced to lean on him to stop herself from stumbling – she hadn’t planned on it, but it had happened. When she did, Jon seemed to stiffen slightly, but Arya heard his voice catch.

Jon led her to the door of her room, where he stepped back with a polite nod.

“Here you go,” he said.

Arya thanked him and pushed the door open. She stepped inside, turned and leaned against the wooden doorframe for support.

“Again, thank you for joining me for supper, Elrine,” Jon said.

“Thank you for the food,” Arya shrugged.

“My pleasure,” Jon answered. He half-smiled.

Their second silence of the day fell over then. The air was thick – the earlier tension had partly cleared, only to be replaced by a tension of a different kind. Arya ran her eyes over Jon, judging his posture, his expression, his mind. His face was serious, but not grim. Jon stared into her, drifted away towards the corridor, and back. Their eyes locked for a moment, but it was not entirely uncomfortable.

Arya chewed on her lip, wondering if this was the moment to invite him inside. She had never faced this situation before. Amplified by the daze of the world around her, she heard her heartbeat begin to wheel round for a gallop.

The potential hung in the air for an agonizing moment, but neither of them took it. Finally, Jon swallowed hard.

“Good night, Elrine,” he said.

Arya blinked. “Good night, Jon,” she said.

Her mind told her to say something more, anything at all, but nothing was forthcoming. She almost thought Jon might be thinking the same thoughts, for he still had not left.

“I’ll see you on the Morrow,” he said, after another lengthy pause. He sounded disappointed with the words as he spoke them.

“I hope,” Arya said.

The moment passed, and Jon nodded a final time. Then, he turned and walked away. Arya slipped back into her room and shut the door behind her.

Only when she could no longer hear his footsteps did Arya feel her eyes being to sting. Furiously, she stripped off her clothes and muttered curses at herself. The room was as black as blindness, and the floor was littered with fabrics, but she made it to her bed without stumbling. Her skin tingled under the Elrine mask, but she didn’t want the bother of removing it. Shivering in the cold night air, she found her blanket on the floor and collapsed onto the bed, pulling it up to cover herself.

The world spun unpleasantly under her head, and she found a strange weight in the depths of her stomach. A queer sort of sadness had settled there, like a cold ball of lead. She thought that she ought to be happy with what had happened tonight. Instead, she could focus only on what had not happened.

She rolled over, groaning as the world tipped sickeningly beneath her. The blankets caught between her feet as she rolled, and became tangled. She tried to kick them free, but succeeded only in pulling them off her the more. She reached for them but found her hands vague and clumsy, and unable to properly grip the fabric. Groaning again, she threw up her hands in frustration and fell back onto her pillow. Already, she felt her bare skin breaking into goose pimples.

Suddenly, a crack. The floorboards outside her room strained. She heard the gentle sound of knocking. Arya frowned at it, not at all certain that she had really heard it. She sat up again in the dark room, but saw nothing but the light-show of her inner eyes. She sat in complete stillness, waiting for the knocking to come again. She had almost thought she imagined it when it came again, undeniably.

Groaning at having to get up once again, supressing excitement – it seemed all the gods had conspired to deny her sleep – Arya climbed out of bed. She pulled her blanket lazily behind her, and draped it haphazardly around her shoulders before opening the door.

“What?” she muttered, rubbing her eyes.

Outside her door, seemingly on the verge of leaving again, stood Jon Snow with his candle in hand.


	7. Chapter 7

Jon looked at Arya with the start of a sentence on his lips. As he saw her, leaning against the doorframe and draped only in her blanket, Arya saw that sentence melt away. His gaze took the long route to her eyes. Even by the low reddish glow of his candle, Arya could tell that his face was reddening.

His eyes finally met Arya’s, and she watched in amusement as they strained to stay there.

“I’ve disturbed you again,” he said.

Arya couldn’t help but laugh. “I think you’re the only one who’s been disturbed here.”

Whether on account of the beer, the hour or the fact that it was Jon, Arya felt no particular shame at her nakedness. Mostly covered as she was by the blanket, Jon was seeing little enough to be shocked by. She started to adjust the cloth better cover her chest, but, deciding against it, let if fall.

“I can’t speak for the customs of your clan,” Jon said, “But in the South, most people would be shocked to see a lady as uncovered as you are.”

Arya titled her head. She almost frowned at the dizziness it brought, but kept it hidden.

“But not you?” she said.

Jon paused noticeably before his answer. “Not as much as others might be,” he said.

“Why is that?”

“I supposed, I’ve lived among the free folk,” Jon shrugged. “I know there are other peoples, and other ways than my own.”

“Truer than you know,” Arya agreed. Indeed, in the ever-varied docks of Braavos, Arya had seen people of more ways and customs than she could remember. She was no longer easily shocked. She ran her eyes over Jon’s expression. “You came back to say something,” she said.

It was not a question. Jon nodded.

“I did,” he said. “But I don’t know what.”

Arya shrugged. “What comes to mind?”

Jon looked at her then, truly looked at her. His dark eyes looked into her, and Arya looked into them. She saw the candle’s flame reflected there, like a pinprick of light amongst the blackness. The intensity of his gaze set that flame inside of her, but also frightened her. She felt almost sure that he’d looked through the face he knew as Elrine, and see the Arya underneath.

“Your eyes,” he said, at last.

“What about them?”

“I shouldn’t have come back.” He shook his head.

“What about them?” Arya pressed.

“They are… beautiful. And dark.”

“Like your own,” Arya answered.

Arya read his face again, but saw no discovery there. Instead, it was solemn, almost sombre under the shadows of the flame. She saw a far-away sadness, and a trace of shame.

“You’re looking at me, but you’re seeing somebody else,” Arya said.

“I am,” Jon said. His voice was low and raw.

“The same person that you saw before?” Arya asked. “The one you loved a great deal?”

“The very same,” gasped Jon.

Feeling the fear and the fire both rising in her, Arya stepped forward with a power that felt more than just her own.

“I can only say,” she said, approaching until her toes almost touched his, “is that I envy that person very much.”

Then, placing her hand against his cheek, Arya kissed him. With her height, and him still in his boots, she had to strain up to reach him. Their lips touched, and she felt the hotness of his breath as he exhaled his surprise. Then, she pulled herself back.

Though they were both very still, that short instant of a touch echoed through Arya like thunder. Her legs quaked in its aftermath, shaking with fear and excitement. She said nothing, for if she did, she feared that her voice would shake too.

Above her, Jon seemed frozen by her touch. He looked down at her, his face still and unreadable. Arya awaited his reaction with a held breath, and prayers to a dozen gods she didn’t worship.

Jon blinked and looked at her as if he had never seen her before. Arya held his gaze. Then, before she knew it, he stepped forward into her and returned the kiss in force. His lips felt like a lifetime of buried desire, and his breath was as hot as dragon fire. Arya’s hands gripped his sides, and Jon’s fingers closed around the bare skin of her waist. They moved together, crashing into the cold stone of the wall, which registered like ice up Arya’s back. Jon’s candle fell to the floor and died in an instant.

Arya broke for half-mouthed gasp of air before returning to Jon’s mouth. Her fingers dug deeper into the fabric of his clothes. She pulled at him, wanting to drag him closer into her, wanting to have him all. All of a sudden, however, she felt him full back.

“Wait, wait,” she heard him say.

Arya didn’t much want to wait. She followed him backwards, closing her mouth around something in the vicinity of his own – some part of his jaw, it felt like. She heard him – felt him – chuckle, before pushed her back by her shoulders.

“Wait, Elrine. The candle,” he whispered.

“Fuck the candle.”

“Not unless we want another fire,” he said.

Arya parted from him reluctantly. She saw vague suggestions of movement in the dark as Jon stooped for the fallen light, which she could only see by the dull red glow of its wick. She heard him blow gently on the ember, hoping to rekindle it, and curse as he succeeded only in killing it.

“Shit,” he said. “I’ll need luck finding my way back in this darkness.”

“Fuck going back,” Arya said. “Stay here.”

She hadn’t planned on saying it. It just came out. Panic flared in her chest, but Jon immediately disarmed it with a laugh.

“Best not,” he said. He paused for a long while, while Arya felt disappointment rush in to ruin the mood. “I’ll give the servants a terrible fright if they find me missing from my bed in the morn.”

She heard him clear his throat, and the sounds of shuffling feet. “I think the beer has gotten the better of our senses tonight. I shouldn’t have done this. Best to sleep it off, I think.”

Arya might have answered that Jon seemed had drank less than she, and seemed to have suffered the less for it, but kept that to herself. This close, all she wanted was to grab him by the neck and drag him into her room. But if she had learned anything from the training, it was that often the only good route was patience.

“One last kiss,” she said, letting some of the disappointment into her voice. “To end the night.”

There was a thinking breath from Jon. “If you wish,” he said. And then, “Gladly.”

She felt the floorboards shift as Jon stepped forward.

“Wait,” she said. “Wait. Just a moment.”

Arya suddenly found herself possessed by the thrill of danger. Hooking her fingers beneath the seams of her Elrine mask, she slipped off of her face. Wrapping it in her blanket, which she also removed, she threw back into her room. She stood before Jon now in the pitch darkness, naked and unmasked as Arya Stark.

“Give me your hand,” she said. Her legs were shaking again, from cold and giddy nerves. Without a word, Jon obeyed.

Arya wrapped her fingers around Jon’s wrist, and gently guided his hand. His fingers were rougher, more calloused now than when last she felt them. Still, they were warmer than the candle’s flame, and when she touched them to her face, they were as gentle ever.

Arya took her hand away from his wrist, and let out a shaky breath. Wordlessly, delicately, Jon’s fingertips traced along her skin – her real skin, Arya’s skin, his sister’s skin. They brushed along her cheek to the edge of her jaw, and followed the bone to the tip of her chin. They slipped down onto the soft skin of her neck, and Arya swallowed as Jon ran his thumb along the length of her collarbone.

With the silent solemnity of a worshipper, Jon’s hand explored down over her breastbone, and onto her breasts. He brushed his thumb over her nipple, and Arya shivered. It was a sensation she had no experience of, and nothing to compare it to.

No longer able to restrain herself, Arya latched her own hands around the back of Jon’s neck. She pulled his mouth back to hers, and their lips met again. Arya let her tongue explore into his mouth and felt the answer of his own, felt the bitter remnants of his beer and the sharp edge of his front teeth. It felt simple, strange, and entirely natural. Her mind went blank as all the world shrank down to this sensation in the dark, divorced entirely from sound or vision, time or place.

When they at last pulled away, Arya was certain that her heart must echo through the whole body of Winterfell. Jon Snow’s fingertips still held on her skin. There was a final silence, in which all she could hear was his breathing.

At last, Jon Snow spoke.

“Goodnight,” he said, with a voice out of the darkness.

His hand came away from her skin, and sooner after his footprints faded down the hallway. For the second time that day, Arya was left alone in the shadows.

 


End file.
